The Case of the Dying Spy
by Christina Marie
Summary: Clayton Webb, dying? Can Harm uncover the truth before it's too late?


From the Casebooks of...   
"The Case of the Dying Spy"   
  
  
  
  
  
  
Jennifer Carrol could withstand just about anything that came her way. Managing an apartment complex in Alexandria, Virginia was supposed to be an easy, relaxing job. The worst thing she thought she'd have to deal with were noisy tenants and leaking pipes. Instead, she'd been plagued by tenants, or rather, one particular tenant, whom trouble seemed attached to. In the few years she'd known him, there had been a number of strange visitors, disagreeable incidents and even a body found in the garage... one of his coworkers, she'd been told.   
  
She also knew that her tenant had an incredibly dangerous job, and while she disagreed with him socially, politically and morally, at least he paid his rent on time and for any repairs that were needed because of him.   
  
So, it was with more than just a bit of concern that she found herself at JAG Headquarters in Falls Church. She had come through the gate, telling the guard that she had urgent business with Commander Harmon Rabb. When she entered the main building, she was given a visitor's ID tag and escorted to the second floor by one of the Marines.   
  
  
Harm looked up from his computer screen at the sound of a knock. A young woman, perhaps 30, was looking at him expectantly from the doorway. "Can I help you, Ms...?"   
  
"Carrol... Jennifer Carrol." Harm couldn't place her right away, but it quickly came to him. She'd given him the keys for Clayton Webb's apartment after he'd 'died' in Baltimore. "You're the building manager for Clayton Webb's condo."   
  
Jennifer nodded quickly. "Yes... and he's the reason I'm here, Commander. Mr. Webb... he's sick."   
  
Harm gave her a quizzical look. "Sick...?"   
  
"I mean it, he's sick. He's in there, all by himself, sick... He..." She stopped, realizing how stupid she must sound. "I think I'd better start at the beginning."   
  
Harm stood up, and guided her into his office. After he hung up her coat and got her sitting down, he returned to his own chair and gave her his full attention.   
  
"Now, you were saying..." Harm prodded.   
  
"Yes... As you might know, Mr. Webb is often gone for weeks, even months, at a time. That's not unusual. He was gone for a month is last time... Israel, he said it was. Well, he came back on Monday and he looked just awful... sweating, pale, fidgeting... I asked him if he was sick, he said it was just a touch of the flu. Well... I just had the flu, and I wasn't in any shape to do anything, so he wouldn't be going out. Because he was gone so long everything in the refrigerator would have spoiled, so I made him some soup, but when I brought it by..." A look of something close to fear crossed her face. "He didn't even answer the door when I rang, so I let myself in. He was curled up on the couch, pale and sweating. I thought he was dying. I was going to call 911, but he wouldn't let me. He insisted it was the flu, and that he'd survive it." She shook her head, muttering to herself, "I shouldn't have believed him."   
  
Harm was confused by what she was saying. Webb was sick... and wouldn't go to a hospital? "Ms. Carrol... I don't think I understand what you're trying to say... Clay's got the flu and he doesn't want to see a doctor?"   
  
Her eyes went hard. "No... No, it's worse than that. Much worse. It's been *three* days! I checked on him yesterday, and it's gotten worse, Commander. He was literally gray, sounded like he was choking on something when he breathed. Still wouldn't let me call anyone." She paused, trying to explain her lack of action. "I know what he does for a living... who he works for. You don't tell someone like him what to do!"   
  
Harm could understand, and told her so. Then, "So what made you come here?"   
  
"This morning, around six, I heard glass breaking. Mr. Webb's apartment is right above mine, so I could hear the glass, then a heavy thud. I went upstairs to check it out... had to let myself in again. Mr. Webb was pulling himself up out of a pile of broken glass... it was a table. This time... 'this time,' I told him 'I'm getting a doctor. I don't care what you say!' The way he looked up at me, God, Commander, I thought I was going to cry! He looked at me...... he was pleading to me, with his eyes... he just said, 'Get Rabb'. That's all... 'Get Rabb'. I got scared, so I looked up your name in Mr. Webb's address book, and came as soon as I could."   
  
Harm was stunned. "Just how sick is he?"   
  
Jennifer shook her head. "It's bad... he's slate grey, he sounds like he's drowning when he breathes, his face is so thin... you can see the bones in his face! He wouldn't let me give him a glass of water. Won't let me go near him! I don't think he's been out of his bedroom in the last three days."   
  
Even before she'd gotten to the bit about Webb's lack of movement, Harm was up and across his office, pulling his coat and cover off of the coat tree. He handed Jennifer's coat to her and looked straight at her, like she was a witness under interrogation. "You're with me."   
  
  
*********   
  
  
As soon as Harm let himself into Webb's apartment, he knew that Ms. Carrol hadn't been exaggerating the story. If anything, she had skimmed on the details. Harm passed the clutter of Webb's open briefcase, his coat had been thrown haphazardly over a chair, a cup of coffee spilled on the kitchen counter, and the broken glass remains of a table... Harm stopped in front of the glass, and noticed with unease that there was a fair amount of blood mixed in with the glass.... Jennifer hadn't mentioned that.   
  
Harm didn't see Webb anywhere in the room, so he supposed he'd dragged himself to bed. Harm pushed through a swinging door off the kitchen, went down the hallway, until he came to a door slightly ajar. He pushed it all the way open, paused, and went forward...   
  
  
Clayton was laid out on his bed in the dimly lit room, looking like he was stretched out for a funeral... his own. His face was thin and gray with a yellow tinge, the cheekbones clearly visible. His eyes were red and bloodshot, almost swollen closed, and black below the swelling. His breathing was raspy, and a yellowish, gooey something... was collecting at the corners of his mouth..... Webb looked like he was dying.   
  
He sounded like it, too.   
  
  
"Well... if it isn't the knight in shining armor," Webb said sarcastically, but the intent was lost on Harm, who was chilled by what he was seeing. Webb's voice was broken and cracked, it sounded like something you'd hear from the Cryptkeeper on that cable station.   
  
Harm started towards Webb, but at his motion forward, Webb sprang to life with a vengance his lackluster appearance would have otherwise hidden. "NO! Damn it, Rabb... Not a bit closer!"   
  
Harm stopped suddenly. "Clay... I came here to help. We need to get you to a doctor." Harm started towards him yet again, but Webb's pitiful voice brought him to a halt.   
  
"For God's sake, Harm... I didn't bring you here to kill you!"   
  
"Kill me? Webb, are you out of your mind? You couldn't even..."   
  
"I didn't mean it like that, Harm..." Clay sounded like a child now. "It's this... this fever... it spreads pretty fast... by touch. I don't... I don't want to make you sick."   
  
It was all Harm could do to keep from going straight to Webb's side at that moment. "Clay, look... if it's that bad, you have to go to a hospital. They need to know that this is out there, that it's around... it could be an epidemic, or..."   
  
"It's not an epidemic, Harm... and the only other people who've gotten it are dead." A wave of hideous coughing caught him at that moment, and Harm cringed every time Webb breathed. It was like the Horses of Hell were charging through.   
  
"Dead? Clay, I don't care what you say and I don't give a damn about CIA and their security. I am getting an ambulance and getting you to a hospital, is that clear?!" Harm was past caring what Webb could do to him. At that point, Harm was willing to bet that Webb couldn't even see straight!   
  
"Harm!" The sharpness of Clay's voice drew Harm's attention away from the door he was heading for. It almost sounded like Clay before he was sick. It must have been his imagination, because when Clay continued, he sounded weaker than before. "Harm, please... just... just listen, and then you can get a doctor... but one I tell you, okay?"   
  
Harm was ready to agree to anything, provided it got Clay to a doctor. "Okay... I'm listening, Clay."   
  
Webb pulled himself back to the headboard and sank deep into the pillows piled up behind him. The whole bed looked like something out of Regency England... four-poster, complete with drapes that fell over all four sides... very dark, very heavy drapes by the looks of them... an obvious antique. Harm wondered where Clay had picked it up.   
  
"Look, Harm... I know you don't like me much, I know you think I'm an asshole, but I'm really not that bad... it's the oysters, you see? The oysters have a whole conspiracy, with the Iranians... they're polluting the Volga... destroying the chain..." Webb fell off into ranting that Harm couldn't begin to understand. He was obviously delirious.   
  
'Screw it,' Harm thought to himself. 'Webb needs a doctor, and it's not worth...' Harm had the door halfway open when, to his complete surprise, Webb jumped up off the bed and took several long strides to a dresser a few feet away and snatched up a pistol, his hands trembling as he pointed it right between Harm's eyes. "Don't... don't make me... use this..." He looked at Harm, and there was no doubt that Clay would use it. So... Harm stood still.   
  
The gun shook in Webb's hands, but his aim never wavered. After a moment, he lowered the pistol, but did not uncock it. He staggered his way back to the bed. Harm made no move to assist him. He had no intention of being shot dead by a friend... even a friend as strange as Webb.   
  
Clay, after pulling himself back into bed, looked at Harm as racking heaves of breath took him. "Don't... EVER... do... that... again, you hear," he gasped out. "NEVER." The gun was still in his hands, but he had seemed to forget about it.   
  
Harm realized that Webb was much sicker than he'd thought, and even without being a doctor, he knew that he had to do something. "Clay, I..."   
  
At Harm's look of sorrow, Clay seemed to recover a bit of his normal control. "I know, Harm... I know.... Look... just..." he took a deep breath. "Just... stay here, until 3... then you can go and get a doctor. I have that long, at least."   
  
"Will you put the gun away, please? Thing's making me nervous." Harm's attempt at humor was met with a typical 'give me a break' look from Clay, but instead of handing over the gun, Clay disengaged the hammer, and ejected the clip. That left just one round in the weapon. The gun he set on a bedside table, within arm's reach.   
  
Leaving nothing to chance.   
  
Harm nodded... it was fair enough. By looking at his watch, he knew it was just past two o'clock, so he had less than an hour to wait.   
  
  
As the time wore on, Harm got bored, and with Webb's permission, made himself a pot of coffee. He couldn't talk Clay into eating or even taking a sip of water, and he still wouldn't let him get within six feet. Finally, out of sheer boredom, he started looking at the pictures and knick-knacks in Webb's bedroom. There were pictures of his mother and other people Harm took to be relatives on the desk, a jumble of those new State quarters (it looked like Clay had them all) and the odds and ends you'd expect of anyone. Harm's eyes caught what looked to be like a small statuette, like one of those Dashboard Jesus' you saw in cars. This wasn't Jesus, however, it looked more like a Renaissance Madonna. Harm reached out to pick it up.   
  
"DAMN it, Rabb! Can't you leave well enough alone?!" Harm's hand instantly flinched away from the statuette, and he walked back over, as close as he could get, to Webb. Clay had the gun in hand once more.   
  
"Clay, please... let me get a doctor. I can't... I can't see you like this!"   
  
Clay seemed to shrink under Harm's angry gaze. "Oh, all right... Go and get Martin Lancaster, on Saint Charles Street. He's a virologist who works for the Agency."   
  
Harm silently thanked God for making Clay see the light. "I'll get him." It never dawned on him that Clay had given in far too easily.   
  
As Harm moved towards the door, Clay called out to him... "Harm... do whatever you have to to get him here, but don't come back with him... tell him you've got court, a client... anything. Get back here before he does...."   
  
The request was odd, to say the least, but Harm was grateful that Webb at least had let him go at all. "I'll be back soon, I promise." Harm looked at the pistol in Clay's white-knuckled hand. "Can I hold onto that for you?" Clay gave him an almost childish look, like he was going to take away a favorite toy.   
  
"I think I'll keep it."   
  
Harm wasn't about to leave Clay alone with a weapon. "Clay... Give me the gun." Instead of giving Harm the gun as he'd asked, Webb nonchalantly tossed it to the floor, where it landed out of his reach, in a corner.   
  
"Happy?"   
  
"Much better," Harm said sarcastically.   
  
  
Harm walked to the door, and with that, was on a mission of mercy.   
  
  
  
  
Finding the office of Martin Lancaster wasn't hard, but the fact that he wasn't in caused Harm to nearly have a fit. The receptionist however, saw the uniform, and knowing of her employer's sometimes secretive patients, gave Harm the directions to the doctor's home. Harm made it there in record time, but found yet another roadblock. The doctor's 'assistant' didn't want to let Harm in. Harm almost decked the guy, and with his tone of his voice, made his presence known to the whole house.   
  
It was only a minute after Harm's near-fit that the Doctor came down out of his study.   
  
"Doctor Lancaster?"   
  
The balding old man at the top of the stairs nodded. "Yes? And who is it that's been making such a racket in my house?"   
  
"I'm Commander Harmon Rabb, United States Navy... I'm a friend of Clayton Webb's."   
  
The rank may not have made any difference to Lancaster, but Webb's name certainly did. "Really... well, what can I do for you, Commander?"   
  
Harm put it all out on the line, not skipping a detail. He mentioned everything, even Webb's raving about oysters. When he was finished, Lancaster just shook his head slowly. "He could have sent for me sooner!" He disappeared from the stairs, but came back a moment later, a black medical bag in his hands. "Come on, Commander... we haven't a moment to lose."   
  
  
Harm was driving behind the doctor back to Webb's apartment when he remembered Webb's request that he come back ahead of Lancaster.   
  
Seeing that the traffic around them was getting heavier, Harm pulled into a slowly congesting lane. Lancaster did the same. Harm then pulled into a turn lane, away from Lancaster, and was forced to turn off before the road separated into Inner and Outer Alexandria.   
  
Harm let himself be 'lost' in traffic for a few moments more, sure that Lancaster had lost him, then, following Webb's instructions, took the fastest route back to the apartment complex. He knew he shouldn't have gotten there before the doctor, so he parked a good two blocks away, behind a small store, and ran back to the complex as fast as he could without drawing attention. The only odd look he got was from the groundskeeper mowing the lawn across the street from Webb's building.   
  
  
When he opened the unlocked door, the apartment was in the same shape as when he had left, but Webb was faring much worse. He was shaking, soaked in sweat, his eyes were bright with fever, his cheekbones seemed even more pronounced.... "Damn it, Clayton," Harm muttered when he came into the bedroom. Webb lay in the bed, as he had before. It didn't appear that he had moved an inch. But the instant Harm spoke, Webb's eyes latched onto him, hope spilling from them.   
  
"Did you see him? Is he coming?" The desperation was clear, even in such a feeble voice.   
  
"Yes, Clay. He's coming."   
  
Webb nodded his head quickly. "Good, good... now, Harm, I want you to get into the closet... Yes, the closet will do well, not enough room behind the headboard..." Clay stopped his mumbling, and with a tone that made Harm think for a moment that Webb was his normal, odd self, said "What? Just get in the closet, Harm!"   
  
Shaking his head at Webb's strange behavior, and only wanting to humor him until the Doctor arrived, Harm opened the closet door, and closed it but for the tiniest crack. Harm didn't know what to expect, but he was glad at least that Webb wasn't raving like a lunatic for the moment.   
  
  
A minute later, Harm heard the front door of the apartment open. There were heavy footfalls, the sound of crunching glass. Then, the bedroom door slowly opening. From his hiding place, Harm could only see the foot of Webb's bed, and no more than Webb's socks on his feet. As the footfalls continued, Harm could see the old and wizened face of Dr. Martin Lancaster. The old man still had his medical bag with him but the look on his face as he stood over Webb was anything but one of a gentle physician.   
  
The room was cloaked in stillness for a moment, the only sounds the harsh breathing of Webb's tortured lungs. Then, Lancaster leaned over, past Harm's field of vision, but his harsh voice echoed throughout the room.   
  
"Webb?" A low chuckle. "Can you hear me, Webb?"   
  
Webb's feeble voice strained in Harm's ears. "Dr.... Dr. Lancaster...? You, you came?" It sounded as if Webb had thought he wouldn't. What was going on here that Harm had failed to see?   
  
"Of course I came, you damned fool. Did you think I'd miss this?" The harsh sound of Lancaster's words made Harm's gut twist. What was he not getting?!   
  
"I... I didn't think you'd come ... thank you."   
  
"Do you know what's wrong with you, Mr. Webb?" The voice had no emotion now.   
  
"Yes..." Webb gasped out. "I know what..."   
  
"You've felt the symptoms then..."   
  
"Yes..." Webb groaned aloud. Harm had to keep himself from jumping out of the closet. Webb... Well, Harm wasn't sure at all that Webb knew what was going on.   
  
"You're quite lucky, you know," Lancaster went on. "Poor Thomas took 4 days... I don't think you'll last the night. It's just so tragic, four of the CIA's best, dying of diseases that don't even exist on this continent. Oh, it's quite common in the Middle East, and so your recent trip shall be blamed... and no one will guess as to the real cause."   
  
There was the sound of movement from the bed. Webb. "I knew... I knew you killed Kenny, and Tom..."   
  
"Could you ever prove it... no! All your talk, about being the only one who could, and yet, when you suffer as they did, who is the first man you send your friend to fetch? The ultimate irony that you should took to your murderer for salvation!"   
  
There were a few raspy gasps. "Please... some water..." It was Webb, crying out like a child.   
  
"Oh, all right, but only to keep you with me until I say what I wish you to hear... to keep you here until the painful end." With that, the doctor left the room to fetch a glass of water, the door swinging closed behind him.   
  
As soon as Lancaster left, Harm was ready to spring from the closet, but a single, harsh word from the bed stopped him. "Wait!"   
  
Harm had no intention of waiting, but something, some tiny spark of normalcy in Webb's voice, made Harm hold off for an instant. It was in that instant that the door reopened, and the Doctor came back.   
  
Lancaster appeared with the water, which he gave to Webb. "There, don't spill it! Now.. is that better?"   
  
Harm couldn't see what Webb's response was. All he could tell were the words. Webb said something, Harm couldn't hear. Neither, it appeared, could Lancaster. "What was that, Mr. Webb?"   
  
"Please.." Webb wheezed, "Please... don't let me die...not like this. Fix it... an' I'll forget what you did... you've all but admitted to it already, but I can forget... chalk it up to... fever!"   
  
Lancaster sniggered. "Really? Somehow, I don't think that'd happen. I think you'd more likely sic someone like Palmer on me... but then again... Palmer's after you, I hear." The doctor chuckled at some private joke. "Remember or forget, it makes no difference to me... it's not the others I'm talking about...It's you."   
  
"Wha... What about me?"   
  
"That man you sent for me... Commander Rabb, I think it was... he said you had just returned from Israel? That you thought you got it there?"   
  
"Only.. only thing I can think of..."   
  
"Oh, Webb... you think you're so smart, don't you? Nothing's supposed to get by the Agency golden boy! A far cry from your father, I'd say... he'd have never fallen for my little trap..." There was a moment of silence. "Now... tell me, did you get any odd parcels when you picked up your mail the day you came back? I know you returned on Sunday morning, and spent the evening with your mother."   
  
"No.. I don't think I..."   
  
"No?!... THINK!" Lancaster was near shrieking.   
  
"I *can't*," Webb groaned in pain. "It hurts..."   
  
Lancaster seemed to take a sudden interest in Webb's pain. "Well, if you can remember the answer to this tiny little question I'm asking, perhaps I can give you something for the pain then. Not much, of course, but something..."   
  
"I... I can't..." Webb spoke through clenched teeth. "I can't... think!"   
  
"You will, damn you!" To Harm, it sounded like Lancaster lifted had Webb up from the bed by the front of his shirt and started shaking him! Harm had to dig his nails into his hands to keep from hitting the walls of the closet and giving himself away. He knew now why Webb wanted him here.   
  
Clay wanted him to be a witness to his murder.   
  
"Ahh!" Webb cried out. "I don't know!" He was sobbing now.   
  
"Let me help you," Lancaster's voice was full of venom. "This weekend, you received a small box, containing a statue of the Lady of Lourdes... didn't you?"   
  
Webb gasped. "Yes! Yes... I thought it was from a friend..."   
  
Lancaster laughed, an evil-sounding laugh. "No, from me. The Virgin's hands were pierced with thorns, weren't they? The Stigmata, in a way.... well, you stung yourself, didn't you?"   
  
"Yes! The palm of the hand... her hands were twisted... I thought it was a mistake..."   
  
"It was no mistake, my dear Clayton... now, where is it? Where is the Virgin?"   
  
"Over... over there," Webb stuttered. "On... my desk...."   
  
Lancaster crossed the room, and Harm could see him again, picking up the Madonna Harm had almost picked up before. Lancaster picked it up gently, put it in a small box next to it, and put it in his pocket.   
  
Webb muttered something, something too soft to be heard. Lancaster returned to Clay's side, out of Harm's view. "What was that, Clayton? You want me to open the blinds... a last bit of sun? I don't suppose it could hurt." Lancaster crossed the room to open the blinds, and while he did, he called out, "Anything else I can do?"   
  
"Yeah... toss me my lighter, will ya?"   
  
Harm could hardly believe what he heard. It was Clay, all trace of illness gone from his voice. The sound was still a little raw, but it was Clay.   
  
"What...? What's going on?" That was Lancaster again.   
  
"Easy... the best way to play a scene is to be a scene." Webb walked across the room to the desk, right through Harm's line of sight, and picked up a silver Zippo. He lit a cigarette pulled from the pocket of his shirt. "Not eating or drinking for three days isn't a problem... but I have *got* to stop smoking! The nicotine fits are Hell! " There was the sound of the front door of the apartment opening. "Ahh... company."   
  
"Clay... you okay?" This was a new voice, one Harm couldn't place.   
  
"Sure, Dan... You know Dr. Lancaster, don't you?" The new figure came into view, it was the groundskeeper with the lawnmower. Actually, it was Agent Dan Hendricks of the CIA.   
  
"Nope... what'd he do?"   
  
"Tried to kill me, for one." Webb's voice went hard. "He killed Kenny Ryan, Tom Conner, Kyle Reese and Dick Blaire." Clay laughed, a soulless thing. "Sprang the trap for me, opening those blinds. Saved a trip." Clay looked over at the doctor for a moment. "Oh, Dan... there's a box in his pocket, with a statue in it. It's pretty dangerous... give it to the boys in Bio-warfare... they'll have a blast."   
  
Still in the closet, Harm couldn't see what happened, but he could guess from the sounds. There was a scuffle, the sound of someone being tackled, a few shouts and then the sound of handcuffs. Then Harm heard Clay's voice... "Oh, go ahead and tack on assaulting a federal agent to the charges!"   
  
"Charges indeed!" Lancaster roared. "Listen, Hendricks...? He asked me here... brought me here under false pretenses... I felt sorry for his 'illness'! If anyone goes to Leavenworth for this, Webb, it'll be you! You have no proof of anything! I'm still with the Company... I have a longer record of service than you do! It's my word against yours!"   
  
"My word... Oh, damn... Harm! Harm get out here!"   
  
Harm stood up from his hiding place in the closet and swung open the door. Lancaster's face went white when he saw the Commander standing there, murder in his eyes.   
  
"Hey Dan... why don't you go ahead and call in for some back up. Get Lancaster back to Langley, I'll be there as soon as I get dressed." Webb looked at himself; his rumpled suit, the sweat stains, and ran a hand across his stubble-covered face. "I really need a shower!"   
  
Harm laughed, and so did Hendricks.   
  
  
Later, after Hendricks had taken Lancaster away, Webb was in his kitchen eating a plate of pasta and drinking a Scotch. He'd showered, shaved and gotten presentable while Harm made him 'a snack', which turned out to be one of the best pasta dishes Clay'd ever had. Clay would never say that, however.   
  
"Never had a better excuse to eat like a pig," Clay joked. He polished off his drink and set the fork on the now-empty plate.   
  
"So...." Harm tried to start up conversation.   
  
Clay looked at him, the typical 'what do you want' look. "You want to know why I did all of that, and how, right?"   
  
"That would help, Clay." Harm's sarcasm fell just short of flat because of the laugh at the end.   
  
"Understand... everything you heard is highly classified... no one, not even Chegwidden, hears about this..."   
  
"I know the drill, Webb!"   
  
"A couple of months ago, the Company got wind of a nasty pattern of asset losses." It was clear what Webb meant as 'assets' - he was talking about dead agents. "The only thing we could find in common with all of them was that they were treated by the Agency's best virologist... Martin Lancaster."   
  
"So you set yourself up?"   
  
"No," Webb sounded annoyed. "I found the connection we'd all missed. Everyone who had gotten sick and died was involved in an interagency investigation about three years ago... an agent named Victor Savage was found dead in his apartment... they said it was a 'rare hemorrhagic fever'. We couldn't find out how he'd gotten it. Six months ago, the Director ordered the file reopened... and we started looking at a biological attack..."   
  
"...And you made Lancaster nervous."   
  
"Yes... Five men are dead because of him... and we're taking care of it."   
  
Harm could understand the CIA taking care of something like this... It just seemed like them... but... "What about you... you really had me going... I thought you were dying."   
  
"Oh, that... I was in the Drama Society at Harvard... amazing what you can do with rabbit fur and a little stage makeup. Smear some Vaseline on your face, irritate your eyes with rabbit fur... put on a bit of red on the cheeks... and some stage wax around the mouth for a bit more... punch."   
  
Harm could see how it worked, but he was still mad. "Okay... but if you weren't sick, why wouldn't you let me near you? And scaring the landlady half to death...? And what about the coffeetable... there's blood all over!"   
  
Clay just shook his head. "Christ, Rabb! What are you doing, playing Twenty Questions?! I had to make you, Ms. Carrol... everyone had to think I was sick - dying. Lancaster's been a Company man for more than twenty years... if you were lying about how bad I was, he'd know! And how could I get to you, without scaring Jennifer? I'll... I'll apologize to her later!" Webb smiled. "And as for the coffetable... let's just say that's my secret."   
  
Clay got up and walked over to where he'd thrown his coat three days before. He picked it up, slung it over his arm. "Come on, Rabb... I have to explain this to the Director. You're my corroboration, so I have to take you to Langley with me..." Webb smiled. "I might even give you the grand tour."   
  
  
  
  
The End   
  
  
  
This story was patterned off of "The Adventure of the Dying Detective," from the Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes, by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. 


End file.
